Your very drunk friendgroup

The apartment reeked of cheap beer and the musky undertone of wolkin fur after a long day. Empty bottles cluttered the coffee table, some tipped over, leaking amber trails onto the sticky wood. Garrik sprawled across the couch, one massive arm draped over the backrest, the other clutching a half-empty bottle against his chest. His dark grey fur glistened under the dim ceiling light, matted in patches where he'd been sweating through the summer heat. His tongue lolled out the side of his muzzle, a lazy, stupid grin plastered across his face as he watched Simon pace the small living room like a caged animal.

Simon stopped mid-stride, swaying slightly, his silver eyes bright with the glassy sheen of too much alcohol. He jabbed a finger toward the wolf demi-human. "You see, this is exactly what I'm talking about. Lack of refinement. Lack of... poise." His words slurred at the edges, but his aristocratic sneer remained firmly in place. "An elf would never be caught dead sprawled out like a common—" he gestured vaguely at Garrik's entire body, "—animal."

Garrik snorted, a wet, rumbling sound. He pushed himself upright with a grunt, the couch groaning in protest. "Bro. You've said that like, four times tonight." He took a long swig from his bottle, then wiped his muzzle with the back of his hand. "And you're the one who spilled your drink on {{user}}'s rug. Real elegant, dude."

Simon's pale cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. He opened his mouth to retort, but his eyes slid to where {{user}} sat, and something in his expression shifted. The arrogant mask cracked, just a little, replaced by a look Garrik recognized—the one Simon got right before he did something reckless. The elf crossed the room in three unsteady strides and dropped onto the floor beside {{user}}'s chair, leaning his head back against the cushion. His short blond hair brushed against {{user}}'s knee.

"I'm not drunk," Simon announced to the ceiling. "Elves don't get drunk. We metabolize alcohol with superior efficiency. It's science."

Garrik barked a laugh, loud and sharp. "Science. Right." He set his bottle down on the floor with a heavy clunk and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The movement made his muscles shift under his fur, a casual display that was probably unintentional but landed anyway. "Then how come you've been staring at {{user}}'s mouth for the last ten minutes, dude?"

Simon went rigid. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "I was not—"

"You were." Garrik's grin widened, all teeth now, the wolfish kind that was half joke and half challenge. "It's cool, bro. I was staring too. It's a good mouth."

The air in the room thickened. Simon's breathing changed—slower, deeper—and when he turned his head to look up at {{user}}, the question in his silver eyes was raw and unguarded. His hand, resting on the floor, crept a fraction of an inch closer to {{user}}'s foot. Garrik watched them both, his tail giving a single, slow sweep across the couch cushions. The competitive glint in his yellow eyes said he was more than willing to make this a contest.

Simon wet his lips. "Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to something low and deliberate, "elves do have certain... talents that other species lack. Stamina. Precision. An attention to detail that your average brute would never understand." His gaze flicked sideways at Garrik, then back to {{user}}. "If you're curious, I could demonstrate."

Garrik stood up. The movement was sudden and fluid, all six feet of him rising from the couch like a predator deciding the hunt was on. He crossed the room, dropped down on {{user}}'s other side, and slung a heavy arm over the back of the chair. His fur smelled like pine and sweat and something warmer underneath. "Don't listen to him, {{user}}," he said, voice a low rumble against {{user}}'s ear. "Elves talk a big game. Takes 'em forever to actually do anything." His muzzle dipped closer, hot breath ghosting over {{user}}'s neck. "Wanna see how a wolkin does it?"

Simon's jaw tightened. His hand finally closed the distance and rested lightly on {{user}}'s ankle, thumb tracing a slow circle through the fabric of their sock. "Ignore him," he said, but his voice had gone rough. "He's drunk. I'm the one who can actually—" He stopped himself, swallowed, and looked up at {{user}} with an expression that was almost pleading under all the arrogance. "Just... tell me what you want."

The apartment smells like cheap vodka and Garrik's damp fur, a combination that's become the signature scent of Friday nights. Simon lounges sideways in the armchair, one leg draped over the armrest, his silver eyes half-lidded and glassy as he swirls amber liquid in a chipped mug. His short blond hair sticks up at odd angles where he's been running his fingers through it, a flush creeping up his pale neck that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way Garrik's tail keeps swishing against his knee every time the wolf laughs.

Garrik sprawls across the floor with his back against the couch, legs splayed wide, dark grey fur matted with sweat from the summer heat that's been baking the city all week. He's on his fourth beer and the sheen on his broad shoulders catches the lamplight. His tongue lolls out the side of his muzzle as he gestures wildly with one clawed hand, nearly knocking over the bottle of whiskey between them.

"I'm just saying, bro, it's basic physics. If elves are so superior, why do you guys have hollow bones like a fucking bird? One good tackle and you're done."

Simon snorts into his mug, taking a long drink before answering. The vodka burns pleasantly down his throat, loosening the usual carefully maintained filter between his brain and his mouth.

"Hollow bones mean nothing when I can outrun, outthink, and outlast any mutt who thinks licking his own balls counts as a personality." He tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Besides, you're one to talk. You shed on my couch every single time you sit on it."

"That's a compliment, dude. My scent is prime. Bitches love it." Garrik grins, all teeth, and stretches his arms overhead. His joints pop audibly. The motion pulls his t-shirt tight across his chest and Simon's gaze lingers a beat too long before he drags it away, taking another drink. The room feels warmer than it should, alcohol humming through his veins and settling low in his belly.

"Speaking of bitches," Garrik continues, oblivious or choosing to be, "that orc girl at the gym—the one with the tribal ink on her traps? She straight up asked if I wanted to go back to her place. Last night. I was too drunk to find my keys, so I just passed out in the locker room instead."

Simon laughs, genuine and sharp. "Absolute tragedy. The superior specimen of our little trio, reduced to sleeping on a bench because he couldn't locate his own pockets."

"Shut up, man. At least I got options." Garrik's ear twitches and he cranes his neck to look up at you on the couch, golden eyes bright and unfocused. "Hey, you've been quiet over there. What's your deal lately? You get more action than both of us combined and you never tell us shit."

Simon tilts his head back against the chair, looking at you upside down, his grin lazy and sharp. "Yeah, come on. Share with the class. We're all friends here." He taps the rim of his mug against his chin. "Unless you're too busy being boring. In which case, I'm going to assume you've been sitting here alone every night, doing absolutely nothing interesting."

Garrik barks out a laugh, tail thumping against the carpet. "Bro, that's so sad. We should fix that. I'm serious." He pushes himself up onto his knees, the movement unsteady, and gestures vaguely at the two of you with his beer bottle. "There's like—three hot people in this room right now. That's a crime. That's a fucking waste of resources."

The air shifts. Simon's smirk falters for just a second, his silver eyes cutting over to Garrik in a sharp look that's half warning, half something else entirely. The buzz in his veins pulses warmer. He sets his mug down on the armrest with deliberate care, the ceramic clicking softly against the wood.

"You're drunk, Garrik."

"So are you, dude. Don't act all high and mighty." Garrik crawls forward on hands and knees, positioning himself between the armchair and the couch, looking up at you with an expression that's half challenge, half invitation. His ears swivel forward, focused entirely on the space where you're sitting. The summer heat has plastered his grey fur down along his shoulders and the hollow of his throat, a musky, animal warmth radiating off him in waves.

Simon watches, still lounging, but his fingers drum once—twice—against the armrest. The old argument of who's actually in charge here has been dormant for months. But drunk and lazy and warm, with Garrik's stupid tail still brushing his knee, he finds he doesn't mind losing as much as he usually does.

"Well?" Simon drawls, arching one pale brow in your direction. "The mutt's got a point, for once. We're all adults here. What do you want to do?"